


To Begin Anew

by MirandaRoseOfSkywall (lostinmymindforever)



Category: Warcraft (2016), Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinmymindforever/pseuds/MirandaRoseOfSkywall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn’t the first time the guards have dragged a drunk soldier into the barracks to sleep it off, and yet this time it is different. The General sighs as she looks in on the inebriated man, human, yet not one of hers, not one of the soldiers under he command, not one of the civilians who have come here to Draenor to assist in their fight against the Iron Horde. There’s something off about the man, something about how he holds himself, how he speaks, how he’s dressed even, as if he ransacked a museum that held relics and armor from the First War, and the General wonders if the man is mad, some insane individual who somehow snuck in with the most recent arrivals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Begin Anew

**Author's Note:**

> In this story the General is either a Draenei, a Night Elf, a Pandaren, or a Worgen, all races that Lothar wouldn't recognize. Whichever one you view her as is perfectly fine.

This isn’t the first time the guards have dragged a drunk soldier into the barracks to sleep it off, and yet this time it is different. The General sighs as she looks in on the inebriated man, human, yet not one of hers, not one of the soldiers under he command, not one of the civilians who have come here to Draenor to assist in their fight against the Iron Horde. There’s something off about the man, something about how he holds himself, how he speaks, how he’s dressed even, as if he ransacked a museum that held relics and armor from the First War, and the General wonders if the man is mad, some insane individual who somehow snuck in with the most recent arrivals.

The man, who right now is the only one in the barracks, is raging, his bloodshot eyes scanning the room as he tosses pillows and blankets and anything he can get his hands on around. There’s something other than anger in his voice, there’s a sorrow, a bone deep, soul wrenching sorrow in it. It’s the sound of someone who has lost everything and everyone.

“Who are you?” the General asks, leaning against the door frame, hand hovering behind her back to grab her bow if need be.

“No one. Nothing. I’m not anyone anymore,” the man says, his tone neutral, and it’s even more menacing than the raging voice he had used while screaming and throwing things around the room.

“No. I will not accept that answer. You _will_ tell me who you are. You are in my garrison, in my command, and I will be answered.”

He looked at her, and for a moment she thought he was going to charge at her, attack her, but he just slumped down onto a bed, his shoulders falling, the look of utter defeat on his face. He was broken, so very broken. She’d seen this look on many faces before, seen soldiers who had lost everything and were hollow shells. “Lothar. My name is Anduin Lothar.”

-

The General turned to the guard standing outside the barracks, barking out an order, “Summon the Archmage.”

-

Lothar sits, staring at the closed door of the barracks, waiting… it’s been over an hour since the head of this garrison, wherever this was, had left, shouting out orders. He knew that tone, he’d used it himself with his own troops, whoever, whatever she was, she was a leader.

The door opened, and an older man entered, closing the door behind him. Lothar wanted to ask who he was then noticed the staff that the man rested against the wall before coming to sit across from Lothar. Lothar knew that staff, knew the man who had wielded it, who had been dead now for over a year.

“So tell me, are you the Anduin Lothar of this dimension’s Azeroth, or from another one?” and even without the man saying who he was Lothar knew that voice, older, yes, much like the man’s physical body, but the voice, the tone, that was pure, unadulterated Khadgar.

“Khadgar?”

The Archmage gave him a look, one that stated he wanted his question answered.

“I don’t know. I have no idea what you are talking about. Dimension? All I know is that… that obviously this isn’t my world, and you are not my Khadgar.”

“And how can you be so certain of that?”

“Because he’s dead,” Lothar screamed the words, his voice filled with emotion. “Because I buried him not three weeks ago, because he was killed in front of me, stabbed in the heart by… by someone who didn’t… approve.”

The Archmage sighed, needing to find out what had happened, “Tell me. Tell me what happened, tell me everything.”

And Lothar spoke.

-

They’d met in Stormwind, Lothar coming to interrogate the young mage who had been found searching the bodies. Lothar had been both annoyed and impressed by the young mage, and in the days that followed had felt a growing respect, even feelings he didn’t want to acknowledge, for Khadgar.

Then Callan was killed, and Lothar had been heartbroken. He’d went and drank himself into a stupor, and when Garona had shown up at the inn he’d been tempted to take what she was offering, to let himself get lost in her arms for even a brief moment, but Khadgar’s face had popped into his head, Khadgar’s smile, his eyes, and Lothar knew he couldn’t hide how he felt, not even from himself. He’d turned her down, seeing the disappointment in her eyes, but knew he couldn’t bring himself to let her get her hopes up about anything between them, his heart belonged to someone else.

He’d ended up in a cell, and Khadgar had come to rescue him, and Lothar knew he had to tell him, had to let _his_ mage know how he felt. So he did the only rational thing, he kissed Khadgar. They didn’t have time to talk about what that kiss meant, not until after both Medivh and Llane were dead. They mourned together, Khadgar being the rock, the support Lothar needed.

It had been hard, losing his son, and two of his oldest friends in the span of days, losing a new friend due to her betrayal. Lothar and Khadgar had thrown themselves into their new roles, Regent Lord and Guardian, and had grown closer, falling harder in love with each other. And for months, almost a year, everything is fine, everything runs smoothly, and then tragedy.

No one was certain who placed the explosive.

The explosion rocked Stormwind, smoke and fire pouring out of Stormwind Castle. By the time the flames were out all that was left was a charred, smoking husk. Bodies had been found, and Lothar had watched with horror as the corpses of Taria, Adariall, and Varian were carried out of the ruins. They’d been in the center of the blast, the explosion starting in their private dining room.

Lothar hadn’t been in the castle, he and Khadgar had been in Goldshire, spending a quiet night together.

Once more Lothar mourned, and Khadgar was there for him. He’d lost so much, too much, and he knew that if he lost Khadgar, if his lost the one person he had left then what little sanity he still had would be lost.

As the only living member, be it only by being Taria’s brother, of the royal family, Lothar found himself being coronated as the new King. He felt wrong wearing the crown, felt wrong taking the title which he felt he hadn’t earned. But Stormwind needed a king, and Lothar was the one they had chosen. His first order of duty was officiating the funerals for his dear sister and young niece and nephew, all dead long before their times. He’d gathered trusted individuals to investigate, to find out just who had been responsible for the senseless act.

And then, knowing he needed to do it, knowing he’d never live with himself if he didn’t act, he proposed to Khadgar. They’d married in a small ceremony, just the two of them and a handful of priests. When Lothar stepped out to make the announcement it had been received well, at least that is what Lothar had assumed, but they had barely left the stairs of the in repair Stormwind Castle when a man, a former soldier who had served with Lothar for many years, rushed out of the crowd, moving so fast, so swiftly that neither Khadgar nor Lothar had been able to stop the blade he held in his hand from stabbing into Khadgar’s chest, into his heart, the blood pouring out of his body onto the cold hard ground.

As the light left Khadgar’s eyes Lothar died inside, what was left of his heart, his soul, withering into nothing. He lost himself in drink, refusing to see anyone, refusing to go on living with his whole life, his whole existence dead and gone. Finally, in a fit of drunken rage, he’d gone through Khadgar’s things, his books and scrolls and ancient tomes. He’d torn them apart, thrown them, ranting and raving at the unfairness of it all. He’d picked one up, about to destroy it as he had the others, only pausing at the sight of Khadgar’s handwriting on the page.

Lothar traced the words with his fingers, tears falling onto the pages. He’d read them out loud, wishing that the words had been spoken by his love rather than himself. And then… there was a flash of brilliant light. Lothar found himself staring up into a sky he had never seen before and he had ranted, raved, screamed until the guards had come and grabbed him and dragged him into these barracks.

-

The Archmage listened to Lothar, not interrupting the man a single time as he told him what had happened, what had led him to this place. There were so many questions he had for the man, and yet for now he kept them to himself. He could tell the man was heartbroken, that he had lost all hope, that his world, his reason for living had been snatched away from him.

“The Anduin Lothar of my world, the Anduin Lothar I knew died a long time ago,” he said quietly. “He was a great man, a leader. I honor his memory each day.”

The Archmage could feel Lothar’s eyes on him, and it struck him that Lothar was younger than he was, not just in looks, but in actual age. It seemed wrong somehow to be older than him.

“He inspired myself, and many others, to greatness. The King of Stormwind, the head of the Alliance owes Anduin Lothar for helping to mold him into the man he is today.”

“Varian?” the name is half question, half statement, and the Archmage nodded.

“He named his son, his heir, Anduin in his honor. Anduin Llane Wrynn.”

Lothar closes his eyes, hot tears of regret, of pain for a boy who will never be born filling his eyes. He’s not ashamed to let it out, to cry in front of this familiar stranger, this version of his heart that would never be. “How long did it take? How long did it take you to get over your...”

The Archmage shook his head, sadly, knowing what Lothar was asking of him, “We never had what you and your Khadgar had, Lothar. I was practically still a boy when we met, Medivh’s apprentice. He was, in my world he was older than you are, there was nothing between us.” He closed his eyes, he had loved Anduin Lothar in his own way, but it had been an innocent, almost familial way. His death, even as just a mentor and friend to him, had been almost overwhelming, he couldn’t begin to imagine how much worse it would have been had they been more.

“In a way I envy you,” Lothar said bitterly.

“Never say that. Do not tarnish the memory of your love like that.”

Lothar feels like he has been slapped in the face at those words, but knows he deserved them.

They can hear a commotion outside, shouting and curses. The Archmage gets to his feet, stepping out into the light of a setting sun to notice the guards holding a struggling young man between them. He watches as the General nods towards the inn, and sees her guards lead the young man inside, the inn’s patrons streaming out with annoyed looks on their faces.

The Archmage can understand why she had the young man taken there instead of to the barracks, by his dress he’s a civilian, and she’s worried that there might be some problem due to Lothar. He nods at her, knowing that he is going to have keep Lothar from leaving the barracks until the whole mess is sorted out. But before he can reenter the barracks, he sees the General walking his way swiftly, after speaking to one of the guards.

“He claims he is Khadgar,” is all she says, and the Archmage sighs.

“I’ll be back shortly. There is a situation I need to deal with,” he tells Lothar, who nods, laying back onto the bed he is sitting on and promptly falls asleep.

The Archmage nods at the guards standing outside the barracks, making his way swiftly through the garrison to the inn. The guards let him pass, once more stepping into place to block anyone else from leaving or entering.

“And how is it that a young version of myself has found himself on Draenor?”

Khadgar spins and faces the Archmage at those words, and there is a haunted look in his eyes. “Draenor?” there is anger and sadness in his voice, and he laughs bitterly.

“Tell me, young Khadgar how you got here. Tell me what led you here.”

The young mage closes his eyes, “It’s a long story.”

“I have time, tell me.”

-

Khadgar had been living in Stormwind for a few months when he felt it, the almost oppressive sense of wrong and evil. It had been so overwhelming that he had to find out what its source was and destroy it if possible. And that was how he found himself locked in a room in Stormwind’s barracks, waiting to be questioned.

When he saw Lothar he had felt his heart beat faster, even before the man had pinned him to the desk. But Lothar in the end had listened to him, allowed him to finish investigating the bodies, and had escorted him to Goldshire to tell the King what he had discovered.

They’d been sent to Karazhan to summon the Guardian, and looking back on it Khadgar should have known that all was not well, but at the time he had been too awestruck, too enraptured by the amount of knowledge in the tower, too distracted by the attraction he felt for Anduin Lothar to see what was right in front of them.

They’d went out on a scouting party, capturing prisoners, and Khadgar had hated the way Lothar looked at the female, Garona, had felt jealous of the attention he was giving her. But he buried those thoughts, trying to keep his attention on the task at hand.

That night, while Khadgar sat in his room in Stormwind, going over his notes, there was a knock on his door. He was surprised to see Lothar standing on the other side of the door, a somewhat smug look on the man’s face. He’d barely had the door closed behind Lothar when he found himself pinned once more, this time to the wall.

“I saw how you were watching me, Spell-chucker,” Lothar had whispered in his ear. “I saw the want in your eyes.”

Khadgar had tried to deny it, but his body betrayed him, and instead of mocking him for his desire, instead of belittling him for what he wanted, Lothar kissed him. Khadgar had allowed himself to be ravaged by the man, allowed himself to be used to slake Lothar’s desire, and when Lothar left, soon before sunrise, it was with a promise that this would not be the only time it would happen.

That had been a lie.

There hadn’t been time. They’d always been around others, but the promise of more always hung between them. Things seemed to spiral out of control, and then it was too late, too late for any of them.

Garona had been killed in the ambush, killed when the King of Stormwind and his people were trying to form some sort of alliance with the Frostwolves. Far too many good men and women died that day, and Khadgar felt like he was somehow to blame for it.

He’d flown to Karazhan with Callan, the two of them assisting the unconscious Medivh into the font of pure magic at the top of the tower, and had Khadgar been paying closer attention, had Khadgar not been half wallowing in blaming himself for Garona’s death, he would have seen it, would have seen the truth, but he didn’t.

Leaving Medivh with Moroes, Callan and Khadgar had flown back to Stormwind where plans were being put into motion. They had a limited amount of time before more of the Horde would come through the Dark Portal and overrun Azeroth.

Khadgar and Lothar had shared a brief kiss, one that spoke of promise, of more, before they headed off into battle. Medivh had assured them that they’d have help, that they’d be met by the Frostwolves and would be able to defeat Gul’dan and his Horde. And they were betrayed.

The forces of Stormwind were overwhelmed and the portal opened, the Horde rushing through in numbers that were staggering. Llane fell, his body not even hitting the ground before Lothar was run through and through. And Khadgar, Khadgar took the cowards way out and teleported away.

In the days that passed Stormwind was overrun, and Khadgar heard the whispers that the entire royal family had been executed. And he knew that somehow it was his fault. And when he found out the truth, that Medivh, the Guardian himself, had been the one to invite the Orcs onto Azeroth, that he had been the one to give them his world, he knew that he could have stopped it.

He spent the next months running, hiding, always staying just one step ahead of those who pursued him. And one night a spell came to him in an almost fever dream. He laughed bitterly at the words he had scrawled on the paper before him, the words that roughly translated into the common human language “Deliver me unto the place where my heart can be made whole once more,” and yet he spoke the words, feeling as if his body was being torn apart before coming back together under a sky that was not his own.

He’d let it all out then, his anger and pain, let it out in a scream that seemed to come from his very soul. And then the guards had came, had brought him here, and now he sat in front of this world’s, this reality, or time’s, or dimension’s Khadgar.

-

The Archmage closed his eyes, nodding sadly. He had a thought, an idea, and perhaps it might not be the smartest one of all, but if felt right. He motioned for the young Khadgar to follow him and led him out of the inn, past the guards, through the garrison, to the barracks.

“There’s someone in there who needs you.”

“Who needs me? Me? I’m nothing, I… it’s my fault.”

“No, young one, none of it is your fault. You are in no way to blame for what Medivh, what Sargeras did. You are not the one responsible.” The Archmage nodded at the barracks door, motioning Khadgar to go inside. When the young man did as he had asked, the Archmage sighed, knowing that whatever happened he had tried to do the right thing.

-

Khadgar saw a familiar form tossing and turning on one of the beds. He can hear the broken sobbing, the repeated, “No,” coming from the man’s, from Lothar’s lips, and he wants to run. This isn’t his Lothar, isn’t the man who Khadgar had fallen in love with, isn’t the man whose death still haunts him. But he is frozen to the spot when he hears his name, not his, not really, but still the name ‘Khadgar’ falls from Lothar’s lips, and there is such heartbreaking sorrow in the one word that Khadgar finds himself crossing the room in quick strides, falling to his knees next to the bed, and brushing the sweat dampened strands of Lothar’s hair from his face.

Lothar wakes at the touch, and sees Khadgar, his Khadgar, not the older one, the Archmage, but the same young mage he had fallen in love with. And then he realizes he is wrong, that it can’t be his Khadgar, his consort, his spouse.

“I know I’m not your Khadgar, and you’re not my Lothar, but...” the young mage whispers, and Lothar can hear the loss in his voice. He can tell, just by the way this new Khadgar speaks, that he has lost everything, everyone as well. “I don’t want to replace him, I can’t. Just as you’ll never replace...” Khadgar can’t finish the sentence, closing his eyes as tears begin to sting them.

“There was a spell, in one of Khadgar’s books, one he’d written...” Lothar says, sitting up, looking down at the young man kneeling on the floor. He pulls this other Khadgar up to sit next to him, closing his eyes briefly, “I don’t even know what it said. I just… it was a piece of him, it wall all I had left, and then… then I was here.”

Khadgar reaches into his pocket, pulling out the scrap of paper with the spell he had written on it. He shows it to Lothar, watches as the man’s eyes widen in recognition.

“That’s the spell. The spell I...”

“It came to me in a dream last night. I don’t even know where it came from, it… it roughly translates to ‘Deliver me unto the place where my heart can be made whole once more’. I just… it was as if some force, some power made me write those words, made me speak them to bring me here.”

Lothar just stared, then closed his eyes, nodding once. He’d seen enough in his days to not wish to look too closely into this gift of a second chance at happiness. Slowly, as not wanting to presume, he grasped Khadgar’s hand, letting their fingers intertwine. He let out a sigh of relief when he felt the young mage give him a quick squeeze, the nodded.

“Will you tell me about your Khadgar, your world?” Khadgar requested.

“If you tell me of your Lothar, your world.”

Khadgar nodded.

The door to the barracks was opened, and the Archmage walked inside. After a brief talk he opened a portal for them to his tower, where they could have privacy, where they could get to know each other better.

As the portal closed Khadgar saw a flash of black flying overhead and let himself take the form of a raven, flying off after the other form. They landed, away from anyone who would be snooping, both of them returning to their human forms.

“You sent them the spell, didn’t you?” It was less a question than a statement of fact.

Medivh just nodded, looking at the man who had once been his apprentice in a different life, before, before he’d been reformed, whole and without the taint of the fallen Titan.

The Archmage nodded, settling in next to the other mage. They sat silently, watching, waiting, scanning the planes of existence with their minds, searching for the next ones who would need their assistance, the Archmage lending Medivh his strength, his protection in this most dangerous, but needed endeavor. He could do no less, he loved the other mage, even if he would never, could never say the words out loud.

“I love you, too,” Medivh whispered, breaking their silence.

The Archmage moved closer, allowing a smile to come to his lips. Maybe happy endings did exist, even for old men such as himself.


End file.
